Unrequited. Words by Mimi Salazar
He crossed his legs.
It was a non-feminine gesture.
The afternoon sliced his face delicately
with the edge of a half-opened
that allowed the sun to pass.
I saw the motions of his lips
but could not hear
what he had said.
I could only hear the beat of wings
during a migration.
When an escape from winter is desired,
it can only motivate strange births.
The baggie became empty,
and another day gave way.
I thought he was the picture of romance
with his face in shadows as he fondled Vonnegut.
I could not have him.
I love him too much.
What is it in darkness that encourages dreams?
Darkness allows no surfaces, including mirrors.
Those who insist otherwise
have confused something else with a fall,
and as they fall
It is quite a familiar gesture for me.